


Restless Things

by nigeltde



Series: A Lifetime or Two [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 02:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16945539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigeltde/pseuds/nigeltde
Summary: A roll in the hay.





	Restless Things

**Author's Note:**

> A little unbeta'd fillip. I couldn't help it! Sam has been so patient. Title from Newsom's Only Skin.

“Hey,” Sam says. Clears his throat. They’re gunning up the 35. It’s the end of a long, long, big sky day, the light fading, the air crisp and dry. They left the humidity at the river, with their mother and most of Dean’s sanity. “We should pick up that gear.” 

“What gear?”

“From Mike.”

Dean sends a look over. From this side Sam seems fine. Dark with stubble and kinda sweaty, twitchy. Cut on his temple hidden away, window-facing. “I can do that any time. I thought we’d just. Go home.”

Sam props his elbow on the door and picks at the tape on his fingers. “It’s on the way.” 

“Not really.” Ten punishing hours in the car already; that will push them past twelve total. 

“Well, you know.” Sam shrugs; nothing to see here. “Then you don’t have to worry about it.” 

Dean bites his lip. “Yeah? You want me to give him the pink slip at the same time?”

Sam’s mouth bends in a smile, downwards, trying to suppress it. He scratches at his cheek. Flushes.

Jesus Christ. 

Dean shifts in his seat. His brain has been doing some pretty crazy things to him over the last two days. He’s running high and tight trying to keep a lid on it, not feed the flame. All day yesterday in sleep and recovery at that cage of a motel, listening to Sam bitch about shaving with his wrong hand, listening to their mother tap her feet and wish she were gone. All day today in a car that shrank with every passing mile, silence settled thick and expectant, suffocating, too much to bear and too strong to break. It’s been hard.

He just wants to get to the bunker. He made Sam check out at dawn, this morning. His back is pissed at him, his shoulders. His eyes are dry. He’s eaten nothing but sugar and a gluey microwaved burrito. He’ll be okay if they can just – get there. Sort it out.

He takes a drink of water, wedges the bottle back between his thighs. Taps the plastic, calculating. “I guess it’s not much of a detour.” 

Sam sends him a look, dark. The sun’s dropped low on Dean’s side, burning the clouds, orange cinders glowing through. They comb Sam’s shirt, creep up his neck. Tan the line of his jaw. They make shadows of his lips.

Dean puts his foot down.

::

Deep evening by the time they pull up in front of the body shop and the garage door is down. Lights on still, though. That’s Dean’s first hope dashed. His second, when Sam gets out the car at the same time he does. Mike answers on the third round of knocking, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Dean?” Mike frowns. “Did you text? I didn’t--”

“No, we were just – on our way back and I figured--”

“Yeah, of course.” He pushes open the screen door and steps back. “Come in.” He calls over his shoulder. “How are you? How was your ma?”

Fine, Dean tells him, and follows him through the garage, fluorescent buzzing overhead. Sam dogs his heels.

Mike dodges an empty lift and grabs the grille assembly off the rear shelves, swaddled in bubble wrap, hands it over. “I got the gears in the office, I threw in some--” He turns, gets a solid look at Sam. Most of Sam’s hair on that side flops over his stitches but it’s obvious he’s taken a hit, and then there’s the taped fingers on his right hand, the car-worn clothes.

“I had an accident,” Sam says, bone-dry.

“You don’t say.” Mike raises an eyebrow, shoots a glance at Dean.

“He’s fine,” Dean says, and clears his throat. “Where did you say those gears were?”

The office: a formica table, bar fridge, couple of armchairs, TV. A desk, stacked with papers, receipt books, catalogues, a blown head gasket. An ancient computer. A couple of dusty OEM boxes marked with his name. Dean opens them, makes approving noises. Tries to keep focus. It raises the hair on his neck to have Sam in here, gaze flicking around, face carefully neutral. Catching on a poster, tacked up, Steve McQueen leaning over his Mustang. He looks at Dean. 

Dean’s face burns.

“You good for gear oil?” Mike says, frowning down at his card reader. He bangs it on the desk a couple of times, mutters. 

“Yeah.” 

“This goddamn--” Mike shakes his head, tosses the reader on the desk. “Gimme a second, sorry, I gotta find the old one.” 

Sam watches him go. Runs his good hand through his hair and turns, taps his fingers on the back of the chair, idling along. Tilts his head at the booze on the shelf. Picks up a can of grease sitting on top of the fridge, puts it down. Pushes some papers around. 

There’s a bend of regret in the line of his mouth.

“I always thought you could end up with a place like this,” he says. “If things were different.” Turns back to Dean and they stand there a moment staring at each other. Dean’s skin crawls. He can’t think, with Sam here. It’s no better than being in the car, in the motel. “And then you found it.”

“Things aren’t different,” Dean says, heart thumping, and then Sam – _cruises_ him. No other way to say it. Five feet away and his gaze drops, scanning slow down Dean’s body; stops, he _stops_ at Dean’s crotch. Dean’s dick twitches, throbs, under the pressure. 

Eyes back up to Dean’s, coal-black. Colour high. Looks away around the room again. Evaluating.

“I’d put you in the armchair,” he says, low, dark, almost to himself. Wince flashing over his face and his chest heaves and he stares at Dean, wide-eyed, desperate. “I’d--”

Boots in the hall. “Found it,” Mike says, coming back in, pressing buttons and Dean snaps away and fumbles over the boxes, dazed hands, his mouth dry, breath shallow. He tugs at his shirt. 

They pay. They carry the gears and the grille to the car. They all shake hands. Some fashion of goodbye leaves Dean’s mouth. The car spits gravel. 

They’re moving.

::

“Did you get that out of your system, then?” Dean says, strained, ten minutes down the road. Night proper now, low faint moon, star-scattered, pushing the headlights into the nothing. The engine’s buzzing through him. He doesn’t have enough focus to be driving this speed. He’s still having trouble breathing.

Sam’s knee is jumping. “How much longer?”

They just went over Dry Creek. Left turn coming up. “Half an hour,” Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, discontent. “Hey, this was your idea. I said we should go straight home.”

“Yeah?” Sam says. Watching him in the dark. Silence. “What’s gonna happen when we get there?”

Dean doesn’t know, fuck. He’s been trying not to imagine it. He’d just figured – they’d get there and – events would ensue and then – he has this crystal clear picture of being in his bed, with the covers rucked down, and his knees high and Sam ducked between them. He keeps thinking about how that might feel. Warm skin between his thighs and helpless. He’s helpless. He croaks: “You’re messing me up, Sam.”

Quiet.

“Should I stop?” Sam says. Muted. Dean swallows, shakes his head. 

“No.”

“Whatever way…whatever pace this runs, Dean, I don’t care. Whatever it looks like.” 

Dean keeps his eyes on the road. Reaches a fumbling hand across, grabs at Sam’s sleeve, the round of his shoulder, twining through his shirt. Sam hums, soft, cut-off; twists his head down, stubble grazing. His lips are pliant on the back of Dean’s knuckles; something about the shadows throws Dean back to that room in Lubbock, lying there: if he’d been quicker, if he’d kept Sam there, drawn him down, in the dark, wiped that sad look off his face, made him smile, made him happy, felt him--

Dean pulls his hand back, shaking. He’s not gonna make it to the bunker.

He can’t pull over. Not here. No lights. Plenty of verge but it’s Route 24, for the love of God. First truck that comes along they’ll be sprung.

Sam’s voice, careful: “Last Christmas you picked up that woman in Tuscaloosa, you remember?”

“No,” Dean says, drumming his fingers on the underside of the wheel. The needle creeps past 75. Pointless, the turn’s coming up.

“I remember,” Sam says. Nothing more.

Tuscaloosa, Tuscaloosa. The vamps. An old stripmall, boarded up. He’d come out fine. Sam finished up covered in plaster dust. Like a muppet snowman. Shower and then the bar and then--

“Oh, Raelene.” Fairy Lights Raelene. “What about her?”

“Do you know what she said to me?”

“No,” Dean says, dragging it out, slow and wary.

“She said I could come too.” A beat. “Was that our turn?”

Dean brakes hard, belt pulling across his lap. Trundles down onto the shoulder and around, headlights bumping across shorn grass and fence-post. He can feel Sam grinning.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. Finds the turn again fifty yards away, pushes the needle up. 

“Would that ever have worked?”

Dean’s chest collapses. The thought does violence. Some earlier, younger version of himself. If he’d been drunk enough, comfortably loose. If he’d been having a good enough time. He might have talked himself into something like that. A chick pinned between them, familiar softness, reaching for her curves and finding muscle, hot skin, hearing Sam pant. Sam’s guiding hand around the back of his head, pressing his mouth into hers. Hearing Sam whisper that was good.

“Maybe,” he says, numb, blood high under his skin, tingling. Drops a hand to pull at his jeans. Sam shifts in his periphery. His voice is rough, deep.

“How much longer?”

“Twenty, if you don’t run me off the road--”

“Too long,” Sam says, “too _long_ , Dean,” ragged, his busted hand on himself, pressing in the shadows, his good hand in a fist on the vinyl. He’s breathing heavy.

“I know.” Dean eases off the gas, leans forward, searching. The farmhouse and barn, light in a high window. Not far, half a mile. 

“What are you doing, why are you slowing--”

“Shh, I’m looking for--“

Sam tips his head back at the roof, groans. “You don’t know, I can’t--”

“Shut up. That,” Dean says, slows to a crawl, turns off his headlights, swings through the open gate and left, crunching on dirt. He parks amongst the trucks, the dislocated semi-trailers. Creaks the handbrake on. Up ahead gleams the curved roof of a pole barn. Open-sided. Shadows underneath, the looming swell of those big round bales. Just a few left, summer on the horizon. 

Dean turns off the car. Sam is watching him. Breathing steadying out. Waiting.

The moment presses. 

He occupies himself listening for dogs, a shout. Scanning for the probing beam of a flashlight. Nothing. 

He gets out. The door is loud. The crickets don’t care, unceasing. The stars. His heart has fallen back to a manageable pace. He’s trying to keep his thoughts in order. This could be-- if it goes wrong, if he tries it and he can’t, if Sam doesn’t like him, if they don’t fit-- maybe he should have kept on to the bunker after all, got them somewhere comfortable, a _mattress_ at least after everything that’s happened, a drink, take the edge off-- what is this, where are they, Farmer Turnip’s shed? This is the best he could do for-- for his _brother_? 

He scrubs at his face, pressing into his eyes, twisting skin, something hot and dirty crawling up his spine. He’s so far off the reservation he can’t even remember where he started. How, when. Two days ago? A week? Forever? He’s always liked putting his hands on his brother. He’s always liked looking at him. He’s always known who owned him. 

Sam strides past him into the barn, shoulders set, relaxed. Hands in his jeans pockets. Something stretching him high. The wind comes, lifts Dean’s collar, fresh, cool; ruffles Sam’s hair and Sam tilts his chin towards it, faint light soft on the points of his cheek, his nose. 

Dean follows him in.

Shuffle and flutter up in the rafters, petulant. Sam keeps on to the back, pulls Dean deep. There’s a broken bale on the ground, forked over, half gone. Sam kicks through, huffs a breath. Turns and looks at Dean, rueful, amused.

“Never in my wildest--”

Dean walks up and kisses him.

It’s weird, and not his best effort: off-centre, tentative, dry. Leaning up throws him off. Sam throws him off, snapped taut as a spring, frozen. Dean pulls back, puts a few inches between them, heart in his throat, burning. 

“There, you see?” Sam murmurs, searching his eyes. “Now it’s done.”

Dean licks his lips. Watches Sam’s gaze drop. “That’s done, for you?”

“Yeah.” Sam tongues his own lip. “That was it.”

“Starting to worry about this whole monk thing you have going on.”

“I’m not a monk.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Is this gonna be a fight?” Sam flicks his gaze back up, interested, and a feeling quakes through Dean, of a grapple, in close, muscles tight, warping his body against Sam’s, naked, shoving, Sam sliding around slick and hot and tangling their legs, forcing Dean down, one arm wrenched up in a chicken wing and his lungs bursting with effort in vain, his strength failing, need coiling low and urgent in his belly, bucking underneath as Sam shoves his legs apart--

Sam cups his face, splint stiff around his skull, thumb on his cheekbone. Good hand at Dean’s belt, tugging it open. He whispers in Dean’s ear, shivers down his spine.

“We can have a fight if you want.” His jaw shifts along Dean’s, stubble tingling. “We can fuck or we can not fuck or– Dean I’ll sit down and have a goddamn picnic with you if that’s your preference.”

“Not hungry,” Dean gasps, swaying back with Sam at his fly, searching in, stretching the elastic of his boxers, palming Dean’s dick where it’s trapped across the front. Feeling how hard Dean is for him, how hot; he makes a sound, bit-off and pained, aching. His eyes flutter closed. Fixed, focused: he brings Dean out carefully, almost tentative, his big hand dry, circling around and moving, jacking Dean slow and smooth and good and Dean groans, pitiful, and has it swallowed by his brother, open-mouthed, breathing together; Dean licks him, licks inside and they’re _kissing_ , blistering, biting, Sam’s nose poking at his cheek, his hand on Dean’s dick lifting up to a staggering rhythm, and then Sam lurches him backwards, feet swishing through the bed of loose hay, runs him up against a bale five feet high and solid at his back: does his best to bury Dean in it, dust puffing up around. 

Dean sneezes. 

And again, a whole body spark, white at the head of his dick where Sam is working him, short squeezing jerks, smearing the wet there, his whole body bent along Dean’s, arching him backwards. Stalks jab into his scalp, itch down his collar. Dean has a hand buried in his hair on the good side, keeping him close, groans again as Sam leaves his mouth, nudges his chin up, lips down his throat, stretched out, makes him pant up at the roof, liquid feeling melting through him and Sam’s fist around his dick and it’s not enough. He needs more. Shifts his hips and that’s how good they are together, that’s how much Sam knows him, lifting his pace like he gets it: Dean wants to race there, get this done, get Sam sorted, feel him come and then-- then he’ll be able to drive without going insane, he’ll be able to get Sam back to his room, Sam’s room, he’s decided already, the mattress has springs, he’ll do it– they’ll do it in the light, he’ll slick them up watch Sam’s face as he pushes in, watch him take it--

“Is this good?” Sam says, hot on his neck.

“Yeah,” Dean pants, “not bad.”

“I’ll be better with my other hand.”

Dean huffs, high and disbelieving. “Let’s hope.”

“Asshole.” Sam grins, lips moving against his skin. Bites the corner of Dean’s jaw, kicks Dean’s feet apart, thumbs under the head, twisting, ruthless. Makes him gasp. His toes curl. “That’s what you like?”

“Yeah, all of it, I like--” he clutches at Sam’s back, his shirt, trying to hold on. “Do you, is this okay?”

Sam shifts, angles his hips, presses against Dean’s thigh and Dean feels him, so hard, trapped in his jeans. The way he fucks in, slow grind, Jesus, how big he is, maybe Dean got it wrong. Maybe Sam will lay him down and take him over, take him apart and there’ll be nothing else in the world. 

His knees shake. He’s shaking all over, it feels. 

“When we get home,” he says, rasping, deep, rough with shock. “Tell me what then, what have you been thinking about.”

Sam cranes back. Sweaty, flushed. His hand slows. “You know what I’ve been thinking about.”

Dean, wrecked, doesn’t know much of anything anymore. He searches Sam’s eyes. 

Sam drops to his knees without ceremony. Noses at Dean’s stomach, yanking his jeans out the way; seeks lower, smelling; holds Dean’s dick against his belly and licks at the root, up the groove of his balls, mouths at their shape and Dean cries _oh_ , torn and helpless, his hand back in Sam’s hair, tightening, twisting involuntary until Sam whimpers, muffled, humming electric and Dean pets and smooths in apology, juddering in a breath as Sam lifts up and sucks him, licks the taste off the end of his dick and slides down, tight and wet. Dean whispers _fuck_ , crushed with the feeling, Sam’s tongue; whispers his brother’s name. 

Sam moans.

Pushes down too deep, too far too fast, inexpert, and Dean hits the back of his throat and feels him spasm; yanks him off, spit shining. Sam doesn’t look at him. Wipes his mouth and grabs Dean’s hips and tries again and Dean’s left holding his hair off his face, a hand under his jaw, the hard swell of his throat, thumb against where his lips are stretched. Careful but he can’t help moving, in Sam’s _mouth_ , feeling himself slide, hips pumping shallow, white shivers and sparks in his thighs, his belly coiling. 

“That’s good,” he whispers, chest tight, chasing the feeling, “Sam, Sammy, Jesus. I’m not gonna last.”

Sam pulls off again, wet-lipped, jacks him, hand moving so slick and easy now, comes back. Pushes down, clumsy, he’s-- he’s keen but he’s not– _experienced_ , and Dean pants _fuck_ again, overcome, his balls drawing up, fingers in Sam’s hair again, curling to warn, tugging because his voice is gone and Sam the fucker ignores him: sucks, insistent, too demanding at the head, tip of his tongue curling, flicking underneath and Dean groans and comes, bent over with the force of it: unloads in his mouth, feels him try to swallow and pulses again, pushing deeper, powerless. Sam takes it best he can.

Hand dropping between his own legs and Dean gasps _don’t, don’t,_ pulls back, throbbing, reeling, clutching at his shoulder and Sam grunts in frustration. “No, come here,” yanking him up, grabbing his wrists apart so he can’t get in the way and looks down at his dick, big, dark, curving out of the v of his fly and so hard Dean aches in sympathy.

“Dean,” he says, gritted teeth, tight around the eyes, that pinched look he gets in his suffering. His lips are swollen, abused. His voice is a ruin. “Please.” 

Dean looks at him and thinks, _I could make you beg_. It twists in his chest, hot, dirty, his brother: there’ll be a night coming when Dean stretches him out and takes his time, hours, learns things about Sam he shouldn’t know, how he tastes, how he feels from the inside; how he looks on his front, sore and used, how long he can hold out when Dean fucks him slow, what his voice sounds like ragged with need. Sams he’s never seen before. He’d thought after all these years he’d hit his limit, that he knew them all. He was wrong.

Sam leans forward, bad hand hitting the bale behind, pressing Dean back. He knocks their foreheads together and whispers something too low for Dean to catch and he’s twisted free of Dean’s grip; takes Dean’s hand and curls their fingers around, together; jacks himself with Dean’s hand, long even strokes, his thumb crossing over, smoothing, smearing pre-come. Sam’s breath hot on his face, Dean’s own smell and thick musky sweat and arousal and the sweet hay, still, that Dean’s never going to be able to smell again without thinking of this, holding his brother in his desperation, feeling the proof of his need. Learning the shape of him, his silk. Taking care of him. 

“You liked that?” Sam says, strained, dragging his mouth across Dean’s cheek. Bites at Dean’s ear and Dean gasps _yeah_ and shuffles his legs, trying to bring Sam closer, cramped space between them, trying to get the right angle. 

“Felt good?”

“Yeah,” Dean rasps, has the word lifted out of him by a kiss, pressing, short bursts, his hand moving under Sam’s power, faster, direct strokes, hard, inelegant, Christ, if this is how he fucks-- “Come on Sam, come on.”

“Did you ever imagine--”

“Sam,” Dean says, rough, grabbing at his ass, pulling him in. “The things I’m imagining--” 

Sam screws up his face and fucks hard into their fists and Dean feels him come, deep rumbling groan and his dick pulsing, spurting wet, two, three times; Dean works him through it until Sam sags against him, blows out a vast and endless held breath, fallen into the junction of Dean’s shoulder. 

Time out.

They end up on the ground. Half-sitting, Sam at his side, draped pretty liberally over him. It’s not comfortable. There’s hay shoved up the back of Dean’s shirt and his leg is bent awkward but he got his arm around Sam’s shoulders at some point and he’s not moving. He’s good like this. He’s warm. He’s sated, washed clear and clean as the night, unworried, unhurried. He’s listening to the crickets. He’s feeling the breeze. 

“I just wanna go to sleep,” Sam mumbles. Itches his forehead on Dean’s shirt. 

“Great idea,” Dean says, voice gone to gravel. “What could go wrong?” 

Sam pokes him in the belly. Stays a moment, quiet, lax, and then he shifts away, out from under Dean’s arm, props himself up a little more. Scrubs at his hand with some of the hay and frowns, guilty about the waste, the horses or whatever wailing, starving, and all the good feeling in Dean bubbles in his veins, beats bright in his chest, in every part of him, dopey and fond in his fingers, his feet, every inch of his skin. He wants to yell about it. He wants to pull Sam down and start all over again.

He pushes up to sitting, hides his face, tucks himself away, busy, before he says anything stupid. 

Sam sighs, cracks his neck. Cracks his jaw; spits to the side.

Dean bites his lip. “Was that your first time?”

Sam shakes his head. “No. But not – a lot.” He looks at Dean, dark. “You have.”

“I got a history,” Dean says. “You know that.” Sam tilts his head, eyes glinting. “But not for a long time.”

A beat. “Will you do it for me?”

“Give me half a second to get my breath back and you’ll find out,” he says, and Sam laughs. “You really want that?”

Sam grins, shadowed, dimpled, and squints over at him. “Idiot.” Leans back with a sigh, tidying, does his buttons and buckles. Clears his throat and runs his bad hand through his hair. Pulls a stalk free.

“If you get straw in my car,” Dean says. “You’re banned for life.”

Sam studies him. “You can talk.” Reaches over, picks through Dean’s hair like a magpie, discarding bits. 

“Don’t get jizz in my hair either.” Sam rolls his eyes, slight smile on his lips. He’s concentrating. Dean’s heart turns. Too much, his brother is too much for him. “You knew it would be like that?”

Sam’s hand drops away. “No.”

“But you had some. Expectations.”

Sam flushes. “Not expectations. Uh.” He presses his lips together, meets Dean’s eyes. “Fantasies. I guess.”

Dean nods, slowly, feels his breath leave. Rubs his hand across his mouth. “Just. Ah, lately?”

Sam shakes his head. “When you were – when you were on your last year and. You kept screwing around with anyone who--”

“Jesus,” Dean whispers, dizzy, slammed by the memory of Sam back then, young and quick and fine with his hair in his eyes and his pride and the stormcloud he carried around. Sitting in the car, in the dark, waiting. For Dean to be done.

“There were like three months where I was so turned around. I kept seeing you and-- you were gonna go and-- on the other side of it I just. I’d changed. I was never gonna do anything about it.”

“Not before?” Dean swallows. “Not when we were--?”

“Probably then too.” Sam drops his eyes, shrugs, one-shouldered, awkward. “I don’t know, Dean, maybe I didn’t change that much. I got pretty good at putting it away.”

Dean looks at him. A couple of days ago Sam got beat up and tossed through glass by some tiny lovelorn ghost but it was Dean who she tried to drown. She came for Dean with that, with her revenge and her heartbreak. Because Dean had a history. 

It’s gonna hurt, to think on that too deeply. Dean shelves it for later and reaches through the now, for his brother, knuckles across his cheek, the line of his eyelashes. Grabs his collar and tugs him back down into the hay, like he can bury them here, in the dark, together. “Took a while,” he says, sore.

Sam smiles, in close. “Ah well,” he says, kind, easy, against Dean’s mouth, dragging his fingers up Dean’s stomach, scoping the lines of his ribs. Dean wraps around, holds him, and feels the curve of his lips, the promise, secret, of all his private imagining. “We've got plenty of time tomorrow.”

::

The end. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback/concrit welcome.
> 
> [Rebloggable tumblr link](http://nigeltde-fic.tumblr.com/post/181028551196/nigeltde-fic-a-lifetime-or-two-13934-words-by) for those so inclined.


End file.
